


Jagged

by kaihire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nobody Dies, PTSD, Saw AU, allusions to torture, bad things happen, not-too-twisty plot twist at end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek and Stiles are kidnapped by Jigsaw, the only thing keeping them alive is the fact that the killer doesn't know Derek's a werewolf. But is that actually the case?</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <i>Written for the Sterek Campaign Charity Project: 1,000 words.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jagged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OSeiSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OSeiSan/gifts).



> Written for [OSeiSan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OSeiSan), who wanted something a lot darker than what I think I ended up writing. In the end, my muse ended up giving me this. I hope it's ok!

It’s when he dreams that it comes creeping back, low on its belly, stained in filth and pain. It’s on the nights when escape isn’t an option, when the safe cocoon of the waking world fades into memory and there’s no monster, no physical danger, only the jaws of his own psyche.

 

It always starts the same: the blood like rust, layered, complex as mineral deposits on the brick walls. The smell of it, copper and animal, flooding his senses, underlined by the thick reek of fear, opaque as ambergris and just as overwhelming. The depth of the shadows in the concrete corners. The muffled, distant creaking of machinery that had been rebirthed from disrepair but still cried for the grave.

 

There’s a crackle, an ancient TV coming to life.

 

The face on the screen, Stiles’ face, black and white and cast in sharp contrast.

 

At first, nothing looks abnormal, but Derek’s seen him enough times, has spent hours depending on him for survival. Something’s off, something’s off and Derek can’t place it—

 

Stiles’ skin is a pale expanse dotted with tiny, dark moles like constellations, like an ancient star map that doesn’t add up to anything he understands. Derek’s never looked too closely, never counted them, never felt them under his lips, but he does know there were never that many.

 

Some of the dots are moles; the rest are specks of splattered blood, the mist sprayed fine, and with the contrast on the TV and the static noise, Derek can’t tell them apart.

 

Stiles’ eyes open, and he’s looking right at the screen.

 

The image distorts, like a badly-erased VHS tape, and a puppet’s twisted features replace Stiles’ on the screen.

 

“Hello, Derek. I’d like to play a game.”

 

And Derek’s world floods with pain.

 

 

He finds out later that they were only in the warehouse four days, but the whole time, Derek doesn’t sleep.

 

It feels longer. It feels like a lifetime, crawling through the warped traps with only one, desperate goal: getting to Stiles. Every time he made it through a door, every time he found a key, the TV screen would show him the room Stiles was trapped in: sterile, white, the floor a filthy mess in black and white gore and dirt. Stiles’ face limp in sleep. Stiles’ face twisted in pain.

 

Stiles’ blood dripping down his pale forearm and into a bucket, drop by drop.

 

 

For a while, he contents himself with the knowledge that Jigsaw doesn’t know about him. That he doesn’t _know._ And so long as Stiles hasn’t said anything, then they might still make it out of this alive. It’s his one trump card, the one salvo.

 

He tries not to make a sound every time he crawls past a vent and catches the faintest scent of Stiles’ blood. They don’t even know each other, not really, but they’ve saved each other’s asses too many times for Stiles not to matter. Beyond that, there’s the knowledge that this is all his fault: that he’s the only reason the kid is even on the front lines, investigating things he shouldn’t be. (Deeper down, he knows that Stiles would eventually have gotten himself into some sort of trouble. His nature is too inquisitive, his mind too sharp. He can’t leave well enough alone, and whether it’s werewolves or hunters, or just petty criminals, it would have caught up with him eventually. This way, at least he has someone to back him up, however much that person fails at it.)

 

To keep the ruse that he’s not healing, Derek uses makeshift bandages torn off his own shirt. Every time he has to burn himself, cut himself, maim his body, he pads it. Catches the blood. Makes it look like he’s hurting long after it’s healed.

  
He has to keep it up. Has to get to Stiles.

 

Everything else stops mattering. Thirst, hunger, pain, terror.

 

It’s Stiles. It’s always been Stiles.

 

 

It’s always been Stiles.

 

He’s sitting up on the medical table when Derek finally breaks into the final room, his side heavily bandaged, his lips pale and his eyes feverish. He manages a smile, but Derek can smell it on him: infection, internal injuries, blood loss.

 

“Knew you’d make it,” Stiles says, and Derek sees how white his knuckles are, how he’s holding on to the edge of the table for dear life. How the dirt on his face and the splatters of blood are tracked through where tears ran.

 

“The key?”

 

“Where do you think?” Stiles croaks out, and the scent of fear spikes. Derek looks down at the bandages. “We’ve both seen the movies.”

 

“How—“

 

“How do you _think_ ,” Stiles says, and his voice catches on it. “Derek—“

 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

 

There has to be another way. He claws at the door, studies the mechanism. Finds the countdown. Half an hour. Half an hour to _kill_ the person he’s been trying to save. And he must have known. Jigsaw must have known the whole time.

 

He makes his way to the table. Stiles’ hands are cold when they find his arms, trying to steady himself. His blunt nails, jagged and dirty, dig into Derek’s skin. He welcomes the pain.

 

“You have to get the key. I’m fucked, okay? Maybe if we get to a hospital in time…”

 

But Derek can see in his eyes that no, no, _no_. Stiles believes none of it. He knows Derek believes none of it, either. His shaky hands peel down the bandages, reveal the jagged, inflamed cut with its dirty stitches that look like wool. The scent of infection spikes, penicillin, lymph fluid, pus.

 

“We don’t have time, Derek. Do it.” He swallows. “I trust you.”

 

Stiles’ hands don’t move from Derek’s arm as he grudgingly extends his claws.

 

“Just. Just make it fast, okay? Just make it fast. I can’t—“

 

Derek’s claws find hot metal, blood dribbling down his forearm. Stiles screams.

 

 

Only it’s Derek screaming, bolt upright in bed, his body trembling violently. This time, he manages to keep the bile down. This time, he manages not to tear through the bedding.

 

Beside him, Stiles is already awake, and he pulls Derek close without needing to say a word. Derek’s hand settles, trembling, on the ugly scar and when he catches Stiles’ eyes, they flash a faint gold in the muted light.

 

“It’s over. The nightmare’s over. We’re alright.”

 

And when Derek doubles over, Stiles pulls him closer and rubs a hand down his back, through his hair. And when Stiles kisses the back of his shoulder, all Derek knows is that he smells like home, and that when Derek rubs his thumb over a mole, making sure it doesn’t smudge like blood or flake off, Stiles doesn’t seem to mind. 


End file.
